The Only Thing I Know
by pfchristine
Summary: Another dark one shot... this time inside Bobby's head after Frame


"You're free, Bobby. You're free."

I don't know if he says anything after that. Am I breathing? I must be. Everything has gone to white noise. All I can see is the look on Dec's face. It looks like… love. There are other things there, sure. There's the triumphant, preening arrogance that's always been there when he's relishing the superiority of his own mind. I'm used to that to the point that I stopped noticing it years ago. But under that. Coming at me. Unmistakable. Love.

I don't know if Frank ever felt anything like love for me. Probably not. But I do know he doesn't deserve to be dead just because I will be better off without him. I can taste the coppery tang of blood on my tongue, but there is no pain.

I don't know if Dec stands or tries to call me back as I rise and leave the interrogation room. I feel like I am outside myself, watching a marionette of me. Is this how I always walk or are the slightly lurching steps due to the fact that I can't feel my legs?

I don't know if the sound is turned on in the observation room as I watch the Captain take the seat I just vacated. All I can hear is a flat buzz like a dying transistor radio inside my head. I assume he is finishing the interview, asking the questions my frozen mind can no longer generate. Probably something about the location of Nicole's body.

I don't know what to feel about Nicole. I always thought I'd sense it somehow when she died. I don't really believe in that sort of thing, but it just doesn't seem possible that she's dead while I can still feel her out there… plotting, hating, trying to resurrect that sparkling little girl she once was like some sort of vicious Frankenstein… sewing the dead pieces of her heart together and zapping it with lightning bolts of her terrifying will. Blaming me when it doesn't work.

I don't know if Eames was there when I walked in or if she came in behind me, but now I'm aware of her inches from my left arm. I can smell her soap, the Aveda Rosemary Mint today. A warmth radiates from her, trying to penetrate the icy shell of my skin. I have the insane urge to turn and hold my hands out toward her like a hobo in front of a burning barrel.

I don't know if I'm hearing her the first time she speaks or if she is repeating herself when she asks, "Was he always like that? ? I mean, I know the brain deterioration has pretty much killed his judgment and inhibitions But the complete lack of conscience… how did that happen?"

"I don't know." The voice outside my head sounds alien and unconnected to the voice inside my head. "He was born that way, I guess."

I don't know why I said that, but it seems to satisfy her. I mean, if genetics have anything to do with it then I'd be the one with no conscience. But nothing in any study substantiates that it can occur as an innate trait, independent of environmental influences or a larger diagnosis. Sure, the diagnosis is there now, but Dec has never shown the slightest inkling of conscience or empathy in all the time I've known him. I wonder why that never bothered me.

I don't know how I got home. The details of the last few hours slosh together in my mind, but I'm glad enough to find myself sitting on my own couch, a glass resting on my knee, a bottle of Jack propped between my legs. Only that first, fiery drag straight from the bottle stands out distinctly in my memory. That and the doubtful look on Eames' face when I told her I was fine, just tired, and heading home. But she didn't push. She doesn't do that anymore. Push.

I don't know how much longer it'll take for my thoughts to slow and fade until all that is left is the dull, disinterested thud of my heart beating… not because it wants to, but because it doesn't know any better. So far I've managed to kill off the five external senses, but I'm still a few drinks away from shaking this pathetic, maudlin fugue that always accompanies this penultimate stage of drunkenness. Penultimate. Now there's a word.

I don't know why the only times love comes to me, it comes hand in hand with destruction… death… insanity. Mom. Dec. Even Nicole. Dec was wrong about her. She could feel love. She just couldn't feel it without hatred. Their faces float in front of me, but disintegrate a little bit more with each amber swallow. I fight hard for the numbness that will blot out the only thing I do know about love.

I can't do it… allow it… anymore.


End file.
